On the Hogwarts Express
by Renee Spelt Strange
Summary: In which there is half-clothed hate-sex against a carriage window on the Hogwarts Express heading back to London. Except that...it's not really hate that Draco's feeling. HP/DM TWO SHOT.
1. Original Version

**A/N: A short little canon-divergent one shot that takes place during Chapter 7 of The Half Blood Prince, just after Draco has broken Harry's nose.**

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><p><strong>On the Hogwarts Express<strong>

Draco wrenches open the sliding door, the red-painted metal screeching unpleasantly in its un-oiled frame. Stepping over the threshold, he makes his way past the empty compartments, weaving through the sweet wrappings scattered across the corridors, towards the exit to the carriage.

He forces himself to feel a sense of vicious satisfaction. He makes himself remember that Potter is the boy who has put his father in Azkaban - he is the reason Draco has had to consent to the Dark Lord's command, the hideous Mark, the instruction to murder. He wills himself to keep walking, to not regret what he has just done.

It doesn't matter than Potter is an orphan, that his Muggle relatives apparently treat him like shit, that Bellatrix Lestrange (how could Draco possibly think of her as his Aunt when she had been in Azkaban his whole life?) had killed Potter's godfather in the Department of Mysteries three months ago.

None of all that fucking matters!

And it certainly doesn't cut Draco open with guilt for walking away now, doesn't make him regret the crunch of bone under the heel of his boot. The sound had been…well, if not pleasing, then at least necessary.

It had been necessary because Potter had deserved it. It had been coming to him for six years now. He is the frustrating, talentless, overblown, too-skinny Gryffindor Golden Boy who Draco hates with his entire being, hates so intensely it is the strongest thing he has ever felt for anybody in his entire life, hates so much that the fact that he'd just broken Potter's nose should have sent him into paroxysms of malicious delight.

Except…he can feel his stomach recoiling from the thought of Potter lying there, invisible, probably bleeding out all over the dirty train floor.

It is everything his father has always accused him of - this weak and embarrassing inability to carry out even the simplest acts of violence. It has always scared him half to death, the thought of using the Cruciatus Curse on another person, perhaps more than casting Avada Kedavra even. A Killing Curse is final, over in a heartbeat…but when you cast a Crucio, you can hear the screams echo in your ears, know that you are responsible, understand that you have hurt somebody so horribly that it might send them into madness…

His father finds Muggle-baiting cathartic, has been doing it illegally since Draco's childhood, believes that it's well deserved punishment for those with filthy, unworthy blood running through their veins. But even as Draco had laughed uneasily at the stories for years, even as he had forced himself to spit the word "Mudblood" at Granger, he had always wondered, troubled and unsettled: how can a person be blamed for simply being _born_ into a Muggle family?

Last Christmas, right after her breakout, as she'd sat there in the Manor's drawing room, Bellatrix had described, her dirt-encrusted nails tracing the edges of her teacup, her dark eyes alight with glee, torturing Longbottom's parents as they had screamed and screamed and _screamed_. There had been complete silence, Rodolphus and Rabastan just grinning along, Draco petrified, his parents too far away to care as they worried obsessively about a prophecy hidden deep within the Department of Mysteries.

When the Dark Lord had branded the Mark into his forearm, the acrid stench of burning flesh permeating the air around them, making Draco's stomach roll, he had shut his mind so completely that he'd been on the verge of passing out, afraid that even Occlumency wouldn't be enough to hide how terrified he is of drawing blood from other people, inflicting any kind of bodily harm, even on an old man and an infuriating boy he had been raised to despise.

His hand is on the carriage door now and he can see the Hogsmeade platform through the windowed square set in the length of steel, but again he thinks of Potter splayed out in a pool of his own blood, perhaps unconscious from the pain, not waking even when the train reaches London, left there for days or weeks or Salazar knows how long, and something in his stomach twists so violently that he groans.

Drops his head.

Swears under his breath.

Turns back.

He almost can't believe his weakness extends so far that even Potter is protected by it. For a second, he wonders if that's all it is - his aversion to violence - that is making him rethink the plan that had been percolating in his brain the entire time he'd been lying there during the train ride to Hogwarts, head in Pansy's lap, after he had caught that flash of white streaking through the air in front of him.

But digging deeper into his feelings and motivations when it comes to Potter is a sure way to have his thoughts tangled together in minutes, so he forces them out of his mind and, when he makes it to the carriage he and the others had been inside earlier, simply tries not to flinch at the muffled groans emanating from within.

Fuck. Why does he always have to be so fucking weak?

His fingers latch onto heavy silken fabric on the first try, and when he pulls, Potter's Invisibility Cloak comes away wet and warm, the blood trickling down Draco's white button-down school shirt.

He closes his eyes against Potter's gaze, too green and too wide, as though scared that Draco has come back to finish him off.

"_Finite._"

Potter scrambles to his feet, back pressed against the window, glasses askew, nose still bleeding freely, face and neck splattered with it, mouth parted, wand pointed warily at Draco, who just murmurs, "_Episkey._"

The flow is stanched immediately, and Potter wipes his sleeve across his face like the uncouth plebeian he has always been.

Honestly, Draco thinks bitterly, the strength of the magic this boy possesses - that he had displayed during the Triwizard Tournament and in Barty Crouch Jr.'s fourth year Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons and inside a cold Little Hangleton graveyard on a chaotic summer night two years ago…it is incredible…extraordinary…so _rare_.

But it has always been laughably obvious that Potter doesn't know how to wield his magic - control it like Draco would have taught himself to do had he been blessed with such power.

It is probably the exact reason that the Boy Wonder won't make it through his sixth year, will be murdered by the Dark Lord soon enough.

Draco forces a grim smirk to twist his mouth as he faces Potter's idiotically bewildered expression, and turns to leave, until he realizes that -

"We've left the platform." Potter's voice is startled.

- the carriage floor is moving, thrumming with energy underfoot, making an awful chugging sound that only serves to stoke Draco's loathing for Potter up ten-fold.

"This is all your fucking fault," he snarls, feels his fingers curl into tight fists at his sides.

"_Me? _What did _I_ do?" Potter's voice is equally furious, his ridiculously green eyes flashing with both indignation and panic.

The train picks up speed.

The window behind Potter is dark, the Highland mountains rushing by in a blur.

"If you had just left me the fuck alone, we wouldn't be in this mess! How the fuck are we supposed to get back to Hogsmeade from London? Fuck!" Draco runs a hand through his hair, an uncharacteristic gesture that would have horrified his mother once upon a time. "We have to get off this train now. I'm going to tell the driver he has to stop."

He moves to back out of the doorway, but Potter's voice is unexpectedly harsh. "And say what? That you broke my nose, were planning on leaving me here, then lost your nerve at the last second? Wake up, Malfoy. We have no reason to still be on this train."

Draco can feel the angry red heat creeping up his neck. "I didn't _lose my nerve_!" He hopes the sneer in his voice hides the dread creeping into his stomach.

"Then what?" Potter laughs, but it's an ugly sound, and when he speaks, his voice is heavy with sarcasm. "No wait, don't tell me. You felt _guilty_. You_ regretted_ smashing my face in. You came back to _save me_."

Draco looks away, away from the redness of Potter's mouth, heart thumping in his ears, and that seems to confirm something for Potter because that mouth twists unpleasantly.

"We both know you just didn't want to get thrown into Azkaban with your father. As always, you did it to save your own skin."

And that's better than if he had guessed the truth, so Draco just shrugs noncommittally, trying to relax the set of his shoulders.

Potter sighs, and all the resentment that had saturated his voice seems to leave his body. He presses his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his now undamaged nose - a small mercy that Draco is regretting more intensely with each second.

"It'll be fine. Something like this happened to Ron and me in second year. We'll just owl the school -"

Draco breaks in to what would no doubt have been a very long and very mind-numbing story. "Exactly how stupid are you, Potter? My owl is with Pansy, and I assume yours is with either the Weasel or the Mudblood. We can't send post to anybody."

At that, Potter straightens, and Draco can't help but notice that it brings them eye to eye in the small carriage, and _that_ does something strange to his breathing. As far as he can recall, it is one of the only times that Potter hasn't been hunched over as though trying to escape everyone's attention (an exercise in futility if Draco had ever seen one), and the sight of the boy actually utilizing his full height - an infuriatingly respectable six feet (almost exactly matching Draco's stature, though he'd always been loathe to agree with Pansy whenever she'd pointed it out) - is unexpectedly breathtaking.

Until Potter opens his maddeningly red mouth, that is. "Don't call her that."

"Why? It is what she is, after all."

And maybe Draco is asking for it - a brawl, a fist to the face, a knee to the stomach - anything to make these frustrating thoughts go away, anything to summon the repulsion he knows he should be feeling in such close proximity to the boy that is responsible for his father's incarceration, his mother's subsequent near-mindlessness.

But Potter doesn't rise to the bait as easily as he often has in the past, perhaps because the pain of his broken nose is still too fresh for him to want to incur another injury, but he does shoot Draco a filthy look before throwing himself onto the worn, plaid-upholstered seat to Draco's right.

"Just what exactly do you think you're doing, Potter?"

"I'm sitting down, Malfoy." The voice is fatigued, no trace of heat.

"Well get back up! We don't have time for this, do you hear me? We need to get back to Hogwarts right now!"

"What's the big deal? We'll go back to King's Cross, sneak away when the driver is checking the carriages, find The Leaky Cauldron, get to an Apothecary in Diagon Alley, then send an owl to the school." Potter shrugs, leaning his head back against the seat. "Simple."

Draco has to clench his teeth against the sight of Potter's prominent Adam's apple, bobbing up and down along that pale throat, even through the throbbing headache forming in his temples. "Simple? _Simple?_Have you gone mad? I am not traipsing all over London with you!"

"Suit yourself." Potter shrugs again, letting his eyes drift shut. "It's the best plan I've got, and I'm sticking with it."

Draco lasts about thirty minutes, arms held stiffly at his sides, before he sighs explosively, sinking down slowly onto the seat to his left, the one he'd been occupying with Pansy earlier.

In spite of his sour mood, he can't stop his mind from noting that the view is a lot better this time round, what with the yellow moonlight spilling into the compartment, making everything about the Boy Wonder seem…gentler somehow.

Except that across from him, Potter is no longer resting, his gaze is suddenly sharper, posture once again straight, and that should certainly be a worrying development.

"So." Potter draws the syllable out, letting it stretch out uncomfortably in the silence that follows.

"So _what?_"

"How was your summer?" It's said lightly, but Draco knows better than to think of the words as simply an inane question.

His guard is up in an instant. "What's it to you?"

Potter can't possibly know about the initiation, can he?

"Nothing. Just trying to make conversation."

"Well do us both a favour and shut up for the entirety of the trip back to London." Draco crosses his arms, then inwardly curses himself for having committed what he knows is a protective gesture, especially when Potter's eyes seem to flash with triumph.

"Why so fidgety with the arms, Malfoy?"

Still fuming at his own giveaway, he doubles his concentration on maintaining a perfectly calm expression, refusing to lower his arms, to give Potter any more satisfaction. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Really? So what exactly was it that you were opening your robes to show Borgin in Knockturn Alley the other day?"

It's almost like being in third year again, when Potter had thrown a handful of mud at his face outside the Shrieking Shack - this is just like that, and Draco struggles not to let his horror show.

How can Potter possibly know about what had happened in the store?

Does he know about the Vanishing Cabinet?

Does he know about the Mark?

"Why Potter, how very interested you seem to be about my state of undress. I didn't know your inclinations ran that way." In spite of the trepidation tricking its way down his spine, he does his best to let his voice taper into that amused drawl he had practiced so often as a child, with which he'd tried so hard to imitate and impress his father.

"My inclinations don't _run that way_," Potter glares. "I just want to know what you're hiding. And you_ are_ hiding something, Malfoy."

Draco pretends not to hear him.

"If I'd had any idea about this attraction you seem to be harboring for me, I would have done something about it sooner." His voice is lower now, more suggestive, the tone he often uses when he needs something from Pansy.

Potter's eyes are wary, as though he can sense the danger.

"What would you have done?"

Draco smirks, uncrosses his arms, leans forward slightly.

"Well I would have fucked you and had Crabbe and Goyle take pictures, of course. Then I would have had The Prophet pay a king's ransom for the story of just how very much the Chosen One liked bending over for me."

Potter has reeled back in shock, eyes wide, and he opens his too-red mouth to hiss, "You bastard, that's -"

But Draco cuts him off, intending to bring up more things that he knows aren't true, won't ever be true, but things that will get Potter worked up just the same, just enough to forget about Borgin.

"I always knew you had to be bent, Potter." Another heavy weight settles in his stomach, at having to mock something he already knows to be true about himself, but it's okay, he will do this if he has to, if it will make Potter change the subject.

In any case, nobody knows about his preference for boys, and he has already decided to never act on it, his desires have only ever translated to fantasies, to his own rough fingers shoved inside himself in the dark of night.

"In spite of your awful hair, and the horrible clothes, and those hideous glasses, there was always just something." He makes the corners of his mouth curl into another smirk. "I was there that day in Hogsmeade, you know? In that teashop last year, when you sent poor Chang into hysterics - I'm assuming with your terrible conversation and inadequate Muggle-bred table manners. Pansy and I nearly wet ourselves with laughter. It was an absolute train wreck, Potter."

The boy in front of him flushes darkly.

"So it's little wonder to _me _you're not straight. But what would your legions of fans say? All those girls, panting after their Hero, suddenly finding out that he'd rather be inside Viktor Krum's pants than theirs. And what about Girl Weasley? Been pining after you since second year, hasn't she? I bet she'd -"

"_Petrificus Totalus._"

He feels his whole body freeze instantly, muscles locking tight, but his mind is screaming the word "no" over and over again and his heart is sinking into his stomach. He can't believe this is happening, can't believe that he had relaxed his guard for even an instant around Potter, hadn't even had his wand in his hand.

And now Potter, eyes blazing with fury, jaw set in a hard line, is leaning forward to unbutton the cuff of Draco's left sleeve, is pushing the material up, is just _staring_ down at the ugly and twisted black carving he sees on Draco's forearm.

"I knew it."

His expression and voice are equally blank - none of the shock, or disbelief, or disappointment that Draco might have expected to see and hear, but somehow that is absolutely no comfort to him, and he is horrified to realize that his eyes are suddenly stinging.

And _fuck_, isn't that just perfect?

That Potter can make him feel ashamed of the Mark he'd had to take. There hadn't been a choice at all - it had been either_ this_, or his mother's life - and he'd told himself that he wouldn't feel guilty for the decision that had saved her, that he wouldn't ever apologize for the thing he had been asked to do, that he would steel himself, fix the damn Cabinet, get the others into the school so that they could kill his pathetically senile excuse for a Headmaster, and that would be that.

And yet, between his watering eyes and the hot shame bubbling in his stomach, his body is betraying him.

Potter's too-warm fingers are inexplicably tracing the jagged shape of the skull, the undulating lines of the serpent, and Draco wishes more than anything that he could just fucking _move_ - not only because he wants to punch and beat and just _crush_ Potter for making him feel so raw, so cowardly and so so _sorry_ - but mostly because he wants to wrench his arm away because Potter shouldn't be touching that thing.

It is pure evil, and Potter is…

"_Finite._"

Potter has drawn back, the burning heat of his touch gone, his eyes trained on the darkness outside the window. He is not so much as glancing at Draco, who finds that far from attacking Potter in a murderous rage, his body, now freed, is shaking like a leaf in gale force wind, his entire frame trembling against the seat.

Mortified, he forces his uncooperative fingers to jerk down his sleeve, and then waits, shame and anxiety making his palms slippery at his sides, for the inevitable explosion.

"Why?"

Not an explosion then.

Just a deadly quiet register he hasn't ever heard Potter use, that still averted gaze, and the slightly flickering lights overhead that hadn't been unsteady at all a few minutes ago.

"Because I had to." He fights to keep his manner calm and unrepentant.

"Did you? Why's that?"

Draco can't bear the polite tone, as though Potter is trying desperately to control his temper, so he makes up for it by deliberately raising his own voice.

"He would have killed my mother if I hadn't agreed to it! He would have had Bellatrix do it right there in front of me, and then he would have killed me too! And I don't care if you think that's not a good enough reason, Potter! You don't know what it's like, to have your mother's life in the balance, to have no other option. You don't _get_ to fucking judge me! Just fuck off with your stupid uncontrolled magic and 'I knew it' rubbish! I don't have to justify myself to you."

His hands are still too shaky, and his voice sounds close to breaking.

"You're right. I don't know what that's like." Potter is staring right at him now, but there is no sympathy in the handsome features. "Because he did kill my mother, she died trying to save me, and that's something I will always have to live with. But you know what, Malfoy?"

Here, Potter is the one who leans forward.

"She was also willing to die for the Order. Both my parents fought against him back then, putting themselves at risk again and again, because he and his Death Eaters were killing and torturing innocent people. They fought against people like your dad and your aunt - filthy, awful, _despicable_ human beings - and it didn't matter that they'd just had a baby, and it looked like the Order was going to lose, and that they might be killed themselves at any moment."

Draco swallows hard against the horrible shame now clawing its way up his throat, but Potter continues.

"Standing up for what was good…what was right…it was more important to them than anything else. And it's the same way for me."

"It isn't so black and white, Potter. It's not about being a Gryffindor to the last - it's about the people you love, about to die, and knowing that you can save them, that you would do anything to save them, and that there is no other way. Haven't you ever felt that way before?"

He doesn't even care that he is searching, almost pleading, for understanding now, and something flickers in the hard green eyes.

"I have. Five years ago, at Hogwarts, when he told me he could bring my parents back from the dead. I almost gave him the Philosopher's Stone."

Potter shakes his head slightly, as though clearing it of the memory.

"But I was eleven years old, and I didn't know enough about him, about my parents, about anything really, to know what I was doing. Now, even if there _was_ some way to have them back, I don't think I would take it. Not if it meant him gaining strength. I wouldn't know how to live with myself if I did."

"What would you have me do then, Potter? Defy him? Tell him I changed my mind, made a mistake?" Draco laughs, intending for it to be scathing, but the sound comes out bordering on hysterical. "I_ can't_! I can't let my mother die."

"Willing to kill people for him instead then, are you?" Potter asks, voice crackling with anger.

"No." Draco closes his eyes. "But I'm willing to for my mother."

"He will force you to, you know?"

"I know," Draco whispers through constricted airways.

"What if he orders you to kill a child? Someone in our year, or someone you've seen around school? Did you know that in the last war, Marlene McKinnon was pregnant when he murdered her? What if to save your mother's life, Malfoy, you had to kill someone else's mother?"

Draco can feel the burn building again behind his eyes, but he keeps his head ducked low because he just can't look up and let Potter see how scared he is.

Minutes pass before Potter speaks again. "What if we could protect her? Your mother, I mean."

Draco's heart clenches hard inside his chest. "We?"

"The Order. Dumbledore. Me."

Draco looks up to find that Potter is sitting up straighter against his seat, no longer looking exhausted.

"_How?_"

"There are ways we can keep her safe - the both of you, actually. We could hide you away. I have a house, a place he'd never find you."

Draco's heart is pounding, his mind racing at a mile a minute as he considers the proposition, but in the end, he shakes his head roughly.

"Potter, this is the Dark Lord we're talking about. Of course he would find us! And my father! He'd be dead in his cell the instant we disappeared from the Manor."

"Dumbledore could have your father taken out of Azkaban. There are…I know of some Aurors, they could convince the Ministry to release your father under protective custody if he was willing to testify against the other Death Eaters."

"My father would never agree to that," Draco whispers, a sinking feeling in his chest.

Fuck, he had actually been hoping…

"Not even if he found out about what you've been forced to do?"

"Especially not then. I think this - taking the Mark - it would make him proud."

"Do you want him to be proud of you?" Potter demands, eyes flashing.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Potter? This isn't about that!"

"Right. It's about your mother. And The Order can help her. Your father is many, many things, Malfoy, but he loves your mother, and he loves you. He'd want the pair of you to be safe. And working for Voldemort, doing whatever it is that he's asked you to do…"

"He won't testify, Potter. I think he'd rather die. He'd rather we all die." Draco's voice is flat.

He wants the conversation to be over.

He wants the shattered feeling in his chest to go away.

Potter reaches forward, hands on Draco's shoulders, forcing eye contact. "No, Malfoy. Your father is not that loyal. He doesn't care about Voldemort. Not really. Convince him to talk."

Draco can't look away this time, he can't speak either, his breath caught somewhere in his throat.

"Malfoy…_Draco_…think about it. This is a chance. Let us help." Potter shakes him slightly. "Let me help."

He wants to say yes, wants so badly to just nod, let Potter and his sodding Order take care of everything. But a horrible voice in the back of his mind - and it sounds an awful lot like his father's sneer - is insisting that this plan is a very bad idea.

The silence stretches on, but the thoughts in his mind are no less clear, jumbled and racing and he just can't_ think_, not when his decision could mean the end of his entire family and certainly not when Potter is so close.

That mouth, not just red now, but glistening slightly, is just _too fucking close_.

But Potter's grip on Draco's shoulders has slackened almost completely, as though the lack of response confirms that Draco is saying no, and that's not true, Draco _wants_ to say yes, he _does_, and he doesn't want Potter to be disappointed in him anymore, doesn't know why that is, but knows without a shadow of a doubt that it's true.

He doesn't know what to say though, is so afraid that whatever answer he gives will be the wrong one, so he just looks down at his fingers, twisting restlessly in his lap.

"Potter?" His voice is small.

"What is it, Malfoy?" Potter asks, sounding weary and hollow, now completely back in his seat.

"I'm sorry," Draco says with a slow exhale. "For what happened to Sirius Black in the Ministry. And for breaking your nose. And for, you know, saying all that stuff about you being…"

"Forget it. Just forget it. Please just…go away. Find another compartment." Potter's eyes slide shut, and his forehead creases into a pained grimace.

Except that Draco doesn't want to go away.

Panic rises in his throat at he stares at Potter.

He despises the horribly lost and confused and _broken_ feeling that has been gnawing away in the pit of his stomach for months now, and somehow he just knows that Potter is the only person in the whole world who might just be able to fix it. More than that, he hasn't been able to get Potter out of his fucking head for what seems like_ forever_, and he hates that Potter is just sitting there, looking pretty fucking broken himself, with his inviting lips and his sad green eyes…

Almost without his permission, his fingers reach out.

Find the zipper to Potter's Muggle jeans.

Pull it undone.

"The fuck?" Potter's eyes aren't sad anymore. They've snapped open and are round with shock. "Malfoy, what the hell are you doing?"

He moves to stand, frantically tries to push Draco away, but Draco doesn't let go.

He has no idea what the hell he's doing. The only thing for certain is that he needs this. Even if it's wrong, and even if he's never done it before, and even if he might never get to have it again, he'll take it because Potter is the only person in the world that has ever made him feel the dizzying rush of desires pounding through his body now - the need to overpower, the need to control, and the need to _have_blurring and seeping together so horribly that Draco can't decide whether he wants to fuck Potter, or to _be_ fucked by Potter. He turns, shoves Potter hard up against the window, pins him there with his body. His right hand finds its way inside Potter's pants, and in the next second, his fingers have wrapped themselves around Potter's cock, hot and heavy against his palm.

Potter stops thrashing and freezes completely, mouth parted just so, breathing hard as Draco works his hand slowly up and down the rapidly hardening length. But when Draco works open his own trousers, bucks forward slightly so that his own cock, already rock-hard and leaking, brushes up against Potter's, and groans, "Is this okay?"…

That is when Potter finally reacts.

His hands drop down to Draco's hips, holding on tight enough to leave bruises, just before he rocks back with a breathless whimper. Gasping, heart pounding wildly in his chest, Draco plants his hands against the glass on either side of Potter's head and jerks forward roughly, muffling his groan against Potter's hair. Again and again he slams forward, Potter pressed tight between Draco and the window, his movements becoming more wanton with every delicious grind, moaning and writhing and arching his spine like he'd been born to do it.

Harder and harder, faster and faster, they push their hips against each others, the movements so violent that the cool metal of Potter's belt-buckle presses into Draco's thigh hard enough to _hurt_, but it's nowhere_ near_ enough to make him stop, not even when he feels in danger of passing out from the delicious friction, the slick slide of skin on skin. He feels Potter's gasps against his neck, knows that the sounds coming out of his own mouth are no better, breathless and needy and harsh in the terrifying otherwise-silence of the compartment.

It is horrible, some distant part of his mind realizes, as though every shameful feeling he's ever had for Potter is being stripped _bare_ to be heard and pitied and laughed at, but he can't keep his mouth shut either, can't keep his moans inside, it feels too good, _Potter_ feels too fucking good, so he leans forward and sinks his teeth into the plump fullness of Potter's ruby-red lower lip, hard enough to draw blood, and then that lip falls open and Draco loses himself inside the mouth that has been driving him to distraction for what he thinks might be fucking _years_, and _fuck_, the _taste_ of that mouth, slightly sweet like vanilla and slightly sour like citrus, together with the heat of Potter's cock, rubbing hard against his, drives him over the edge, and he's coming harder than he _ever_ has before, clutching at Potter's shoulders, thrusting his tongue into Potter's mouth, spilling warm and wet and sticky onto Potter's skin.

He pulls away breathless, ignoring Potter's bewildered cry.

He can't help the ragged exhales that fall from his throat, nor can he help tearing the buttons off Potter's shirt, yanking it open roughly and pressing wet sloppy kisses down that pale throat, his right hand tugging roughly at Potter's hair, his left twisting and pulling at Potter's nipples until Potter is a squirming, panting mess under him, leaking against his stomach.

Fighting the voice inside his head that screams at him to stop _now_, Draco drops to his knees.

Presses a soft kiss to Potter's left hipbone.

Takes a long, slow lick of Potter's cock.

Potter's entire body goes taut, and for a second, Draco swears he stops breathing. But then he exhales in a rush, his head slams back against the window, and he pushes his hips forward with a low groan.

Trying to ignore the way his heart speeds up in anticipation, Draco wraps his lips around Potter in earnest, lapping on the swollen head, the salty taste of pre-come thick and unfamiliar on his tongue. He places moist open-mouthed kisses along Potter's shaft, and then tries to take as much of Potter inside his mouth as he can manage, sucking and licking and slurping around the length working its way in and out of his throat.

He has no idea whether he is doing this correctly, his hands feeling useless on Potter's hips, his mouth feeling abused and sore and stretched too wide, but he _does _know when Potter is about to come - the hands in his hair tighten almost convulsively, Potter's spine curves up so hard that it looks almost painful and Potter's jaw drops open in a way that makes him look beautiful, and_ fuck_ if that isn't a term Draco would have _never_ applied to the Gryffindor before.

But he doesn't have time to wonder at how sweaty and flushed and fucking_ glorious_ Potter looks when he comes, because then the bitter taste of come is filling his mouth, and spilling out over his lips, and dribbling slightly onto his chin.

Potter pushes him away gently, then seems to slide down the window to the carriage floor, boneless and exhausted and shivering, but with enough strength to stop Draco when he tries to clean up the sticky mess on his face.

"Let me."

The fingers around Draco's jaw are tight, but Potter's thumb is gentle as it skims gently over Draco's left cheekbone, and his tongue is soft as it collects his own come along Draco's mouth.

When Potter finally pulls away, Draco quickly does up his trousers, not wanting Potter to see that he is hard again.

"Do you know what your father was after in the Department of Mysteries in May?"

Draco's head snaps up sharply to find Potter watching him with an inscrutable expression on his face, jeans still undone, shirt still half-hanging off his shoulders.

"A prophecy."

Potter nods slightly. "Do you know what it was about?"

He doesn't want to admit it, but finds himself shaking his head slowly.

"It was about me. Well…me and _him_, I should say."

He feels a bitter tug at the corner of his mouth. "Isn't everything?"

Potter doesn't return the smile. "This prophecy…Professor Trelawney made it, _years_ ago, and Dumbledore was the one who heard it. It's the reason Voldemort went after my parents, you know." Here, Potter hesitates. "There's a line in the prophecy…right at the end. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it all summer. It goes: neither can live while the other survives."

For a moment, Draco feels his forehead crease in confusion, then understanding hits him like a sucker punch to the stomach.

He inhales sharply.

"If you stay at his side, Malfoy, not only will you be forced to kill people, torture them, _hurt _them, but I can also guarantee that you will either lose _everything_ when I kill him, or become his most honored_servant_ after he kills _me_."

He feels a horrible sort of dread choking at his heart, and he tries his very best to push it aside, but Potter is having none of it.

He extends a trembling hand, clutches at Draco's collar.

"It's either that I die, or he does. That's it. There is no other way."

Potter is breathing heavily, chest expanding with each exhale.

"Which outcome are you willing to live with, Draco?"

Draco closes his eyes at the use of his name, can't bear to hear it come out of Potter's mouth, can't stand to let the burn behind his eyes spill down his face.

He holds his voice as steady as he can. "I don't care about either outcome. I just want to protect my mother. And I'm certain that there is a better chance of that happening if I side with the Dark Lord."

"You're lying. You _do _care. You care about _me_. Look me in the eyes, and tell me that you don't."

"I don't care." He forces himself to meet and hold that penetrating gaze, feels the lie burn in his throat, feels the lurch in his stomach, feels like he's about ten seconds away from dry-heaving his heart out onto the carriage floor.

Potter's face is still unreadable, even as he whispers again, "You're lying."

Draco's hands are shaking at his sides. "No, I'm really not."

"Right," Potter replies, swallowing loudly.

And it's like someone has somehow muted the color of Potter's eyes, dulled them to a bearable shade of green, one that doesn't make Draco want to taste every inch of Potter's body but pierces straight through him all the same because it's a flat green, a dead green, as if Potter doesn't so much as feel an ounce of surprise.

"Excuse me," he continues, standing abruptly and straightening his clothes as best he can. "We'll have reached London in a few minutes, I think. And I need to use the bathroom."

With that, and a distant nod that does terrible things to Draco's heart, Potter steps out of the compartment, gently pulling the sliding door shut behind himself, the red-painted metal screeching unpleasantly in its un-oiled frame.

* * *

><p><strong>Hi guys! I like this one shot as it stands, but I've also written a (much happier) alternate ending, which you can find in the next chapter if you feel so inclined <strong>**:)**


	2. Alternate Ending

They take back alleyways, shivering from the nighttime chill but unable to warm themselves with magic, relying on Potter's sense of direction to lead them to the Leaky Cauldron because Draco has never spent time in Muggle London before. They don't look at each other and the walk is entirely silent save for the odd rumble of thunder overhead, the scuffing of their shoes against the pavement, and the distant sounds of traffic on the main roads.

They make it to the shabby old establishment before it begins raining and before Draco can go mad from the razor-sharp tension between them, thank_ fuck_. But although the wizened old innkeeper greets Potter like an old friend, he also tells them that his owl is out hunting, that all the apothecaries in Diagon Alley are closed, and that he has only one room to spare for the night.

And that is how Draco finds himself lying on an uncomfortable single bed, in complete darkness, not three feet away from Potter, unable to sleep, listening to the sheets of rain lashing the crumbling façade of the building, trying desperately to think of anything _but _what Potter had revealed to him earlier on the train.

_"Which outcome are you willing to live with, Draco?"_

He can't help it though.

With the ridges of his spine pressed uncomfortably against the headboard, his mind returns to those words, again and again. The more he dwells on it, the more the spiraling panic in his stomach builds. His nerves feel scraped raw and the skin of his face feels hot and almost painfully tight.

Fuck, it hadn't even been sex. Not really.

_So how_?

How can it fucking_ be_ that having Potter touch him can turn him inside out like this, make him fucking well _ache_ with the need to be touched again, make him flinch against what Potter had said about the contents of Trelawney's prophecy.

Potter is going to die, he is sure of it. How can he expect to defeat one of the most powerful wizards of all time? He is sixteen years old, for fuck's sake! And the Dark Lord has a legion of Death Eaters at his side. What has Potter got? A rag-tag rabble of Weasleys and werewolves and maybe some rogue Aurors and _Snape_, who is a spying and selling the Order's secrets, and _Dumbledore_, who Draco has been instructed to murder anyway.

Fuck.

_Fuck._

Potter is going to die, and it doesn't _matter_ that Draco might not have to actually cast the curses himself, or even watch it happen necessarily, because whatever he does for the Dark Lord, whether it be getting rid of the Headmaster or letting the others into the school, it will all have to be for the eventuality that _Potter is going to die_.

And he'd been fine with that idea not twelve months ago. Would have been glad to contemplate it, even.

But now?

Now, Potter, with his stupid mouth and his stupid beauty and his stupid need to be such a fucking Gryffindor about everything has, in one fell swoop, killed that dead.

He's fucking demolished it.

Now, Draco doesn't want Potter to die.

Now, he wants…he wants…

Merlin help him, what he _wants_ is Potter.

And that's never going to happen, it _can't_, because the boy lying in the bed next to his, breathing gently in his sleep, isn't going to survive this war. And he's going to have a hand in that, he knows. Before the Dark Lord's eventual kill, he's going to have to be responsible for robbing Potter of yet another person he loves.

_"Which outcome are you willing to live with, Draco?"_

His heart turns over in its chest cavity.

It's breaking, he's sure of it.

And all of a sudden, the tears that he'd tried so hard to bank in the train carriage are rushing up from nowhere. There's wetness flowing freely down his nose and cheeks as he draws his knees up to his chest and rests his forehead against his folded forearms. The sleeves of his shirt are soaked through in seconds but now that he's started, it seems he can't stop, because the twisting aching _gutted_ feeling in his stomach just won't die down.

He presses his fingers to his eyes, trying to wipe away the salty moisture, but a large, warm hand encloses his.

He swallows convulsively in the darkness, head spinning uncomfortably, heartbeat speeding up. "Potter, what -"

"You cry very loudly."

_Oh._

His spine straightens instinctively. "It's not what you're thinking."

"Oh, I'm pretty sure it's_ exactly _what I'm thinking, Malfoy. No one has sex with someone they hate."

"It wasn't sex," he mutters, but his voice is still watery and he's sure that Potter knows that it doesn't_ matter_ if what they'd done hadn't technically been sex. It had been enough to leave Draco feeling…

Potter slides under the blankets, pulls at Draco's arm, rolls them both onto the softness of the pillows Draco had just been sitting on.

"What are you doing?" Draco's voice comes out sharp and startled.

"I don't know." The line of Potter's body is just barely brushing against Draco now, but he hasn't moved his hand away. "I just…before today, I'd only ever even kissed one person, you know?"

Draco raises a confused eyebrow, even though he knows that Potter can't see it. "What does that have to do with anything?"

He feels the body next to his move into a slight shrug. "It means that…I'm fascinated by you."

"Fascinated?" Draco repeats, an odd sort of dread creeping up on him.

"Yep." Potter pops the "p" sound loudly, his voice too light, at odds with the tension hovering between them. "Because I definitely liked what we did. Which means that you've made me consider the idea that I might actually be bent without ever having known it."

Draco half-raises himself off the bed, his vision blackening at the edges. "Which means what?" he demands, voice rising. "That you want to experiment with me while we're stuck together in this god forsaken inn? That you want to see how far I'll let you go because _clearly_ I'm so besotted with you right? Because I almost gave in to your stupid plan. Because I sucked you off. Because I'm crying over what I have to do, and the fucking prophecy, and the thought of you -"

He breaks off, breathing hard.

The downpour outside intensifies, and when Potter doesn't reply instantly, all they can hear is the water beating down hard against the rooftop.

For a moment, Draco worries that he's going to walk back over to his own bed. But then his grip tightens on Draco's left forearm and he murmurs, "No, Malfoy. It means that I'm going to try and help you no matter what you say."

And it's ridiculous - absolutely _ludicrous_ - that that is exactly the right thing for Potter to have said…but somehow, it just_ is_, because without even being aware of it, that had been exactly what Draco had wanted to hear. The knowledge that he _has _that, has someone who's going to take care of everything, take care of _him_, means more than he can wrap his head around, and then the sting behind his eyes has returned, and he's shaking like a mad thing under the blankets.

But then -

"Hey, shhhhhh, it's going to be okay - we'll work it out. I'll make sure you and your parents are safe. It's going to be okay. Shhhhhhhh."

Potter has drawn him close and is whispering soothing gentle nonsense against his ear, his fingers have knotted themselves in Potter's hair and he's clinging against the hard body beside him, hanging on for dear life like some kind of limpet, and that's okay, it _is_, because there are strong arms wrapped around _him_ too and a cheek resting against the top of his head, and the boy beside him isn't judging or pushing him away, is just letting him continue with the breakdown without a single recriminating word.

Every inch of his body is flush against Potter's, and eventually the relief-tears and the shivering give way to the realization that Potter isn't wearing a shirt, and his chest feels wonderfully firm, and his hands are really low on Draco's back, and his entire body is just so incredibly hot, almost feverishly so.

For a moment, Draco's breath catches, and then he laughs lightly. The sound is low and liquid against the skin of Potter's shoulder. "You're much better at this now."

Potter murmurs softly in confusion.

Draco tightens his arms, tucking his head further into the space between Potter's chin and collarbone. "At this whole comforting thing, I mean. Better than you were with Chang, at any rate."

Potter gently reaches up to loosen his hold, and a wild panic seizes him momentarily, but then the lamp on the bedside table flickers to life and Potter _hasn't_ left the bed. He is looking down at Draco with his hair even messier than usual and his green eyes too-big and just the tiniest bit unfocused without his glasses.

"Does this mean you're actually saying yes? You'll join the Order? You'll convince your parents to go into hiding?"

Draco feels a tentative smile form on his face, doesn't try to hide the hope that is building inside him again. "I thought you'd planned on carrying out your plan with or without my consent."

Potter smiles, and Draco notices that it's slightly lopsided, the right corner of his mouth hitched just higher than the other. It's…strangely sweet.

"I would have," he affirms, "but it's easier _with_ your consent. I mean, don't get me wrong or anything, it's not that I don't enjoy the idea of you bound and gagged for me." His grin deepens mischievously. "But I don't imagine the Aurors would think much of me kidnapping you, then trying to convince them that it was all a mad ploy to save you."

Draco raises an eyebrow. "First of all, Potter, this doesn't classify as you _saving _me, as such. You are just…_assisting_ me with a very difficult situation."

He ignores the way Potter bites his lip, as though trying to choke back a laugh, and then lets his own mouth curve teasingly. "And secondly, handcuffs and gags? Are you certain you're as woefully inexperienced as you claim to be?"

Potter laughs, the sound bright and happy, and Draco can almost _feel_ his heart skip a beat in his chest.

"Yes, Malfoy, to answer your horribly transparent question, Cho is the only other person I've ever kissed. And even that," - Potter shudders slightly - "was terrible."

"Why?" Draco says archly, ignoring the rush of heat that seems to course through him, the satisfied possessiveness. "Did you manage to make her cry then too?"

He'd only asked to be facetious, but the way Potter flushes darkly and ducks his head has horrified laughter bubbling out of his throat. "Oh Merlin, tell me you didn't!"

"It wasn't my fault! She was upset about some personal problems," Potter replies hotly.

Draco can't stop snickering though, and eventually Potter's put-upon embarrassment turns into a small grin and he pulls Draco back in to his chest.

"And what about you? How much…experience have you had?" he asks after a few seconds, clearing his throat slightly.

"And_ I'm_ horribly transparent." Draco draws back, amused. "Merlin, Potter, you're about as subtle as a bludger to the head."

Potter tilts his head, a grin playing at the edges of his mouth. "You know, _Draco_, seeing as how I am saving your arse and everything, and considering that I _have_ recently seen you in the all-together and plan on doing so again soon, as often as you allow it actually, I think it's about time you started calling me 'Harry'." He smirks at Draco's surprised intake of breath. "And answer the question."

Draco regrets pulling back now. He knows that the heat quickly stealing across his cheeks must be plain as day under the lamplight. He lowers his eyes.

"I've never…I mean, I…" He takes a deep breath. "I've only ever kissed one other person too. Pansy, last year."

"Are you _joking_?" He looks up hesitantly to see that Potter looks completely flummoxed, his lips falling open in surprise.

He really does have a very pretty mouth, Draco has time to think, just before Potter breaks out into a wide smile and all but lunges forward to drag Draco into a breathless kiss and then of course he can't think at all anymore. All he knows is that, somehow, this is even better than before. On the train, it'd been hard and rough and rushed and frenzied between them, they'd been so caught up in moving together, frantic with the need to bring each other off.

This…this is different. Slower and deeper and somehow much, _much_ more breathtaking. One of Potter's hands is creeping under the back of his shirt, drawing lazy circles onto his back, the other is cupping his jaw, thumb dragging over his cheekbone every time Potter angles his head and moves deeper into his mouth. At some point, he pulls Potter on top of him, spreading his legs on either side of that lean body and arching up into the searing kiss, Potter's breath hot and heavy and growing steadily more ragged against his mouth.

There's a heady warmth settling low in Draco's stomach that has nothing to do with the hardness in his trousers or the answering heat he feels when he slides his hands into Potter's pants again. No, it's because he's never had this with anyone before, this easy playfulness and warm intimacy, and he's mystified that even in the midst of much uncertainty about _everything_, he can have it with Potter of all people, Potter whom he'd never so much as spoken a single kind word to up until a few hours ago.

_"Which outcome are you willing to live with, Draco?"_

He knows that his mother should be simple enough to bring round (she'd made Snape take the Vow to keep him safe after all), but he has no clue about how he'll go about convincing his father. And when he thinks about how the Dark Lord will react when the Death Eaters catch on to what they've done, or when he tries to imagine how the Weasleys and Granger and Dumbledore will react to his induction to the Order, panic simmers again in his stomach. It gets worse still if he attempts to guess how Potter's friends and surrogate family will react to the two of them being...whatever they are.

He doesn't know how good he's going to be at being brave.

But, for Potter - no, for _Harry_…

Harry, with his vanilla and citrus flavored mouth and his warm skin and his electrifying kisses…

Well.

For Harry, Draco is going to try.

* * *

><p><strong>Hope you all had as much fun reading this as I had writing it! :)<strong>


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